


Junk Food and Dirty Socks: A Love Story

by igrockspock



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 08:49:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2185401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igrockspock/pseuds/igrockspock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint and Natasha show their love in unusual ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Junk Food and Dirty Socks: A Love Story

Clint always keeps icing in the cupboard, but he never makes cake. Over the course of the month, the flavors transform from inoffensive to garish: chocolate, lemon, coconut-pecan, rainbow sprinkle funfetti. Natasha eyes the last carton with a mixture of horror and trepidation. If it had a heart, she'd stick her knife through it and laugh while it died.

She doesn't find out what Clint does with the icing until the NCAA basketball tournament comes on TV. He'd recorded it of course -- Russian Mafiya dons need to be assassinated even during March Madness -- and now he's sitting on the couch, bathed in the blue light of their TV screen. Natasha hears a plastic lid crack, and then the crackle of a paper seal being ripped off. Eyes wide, she watches as Clint dips a finger into the tub of icing and slowly, methodically licks it off. Again and again. How does he not vomit? Natasha wonders. How does he not _die_?

The next evening, Natasha gently pries the icing container out of Clint's hands. He watches her with wounded eyes, but doesn't try to fight (which is wise - when they spar, she always wins). The red and yellow carton makes a satisfying _thud_ when she hurls it into the empty trash can. She returns with a Whole Foods bag -- the reusable kind, naturally -- and places a jar of Nutella on the coffee table in front of him. Next to it, she deposits a sleeve of graham crackers. Finally, she hands him a butter knife.

"If we're going to live together, at least be civilized," she says.

***

Clint opens the dishwasher and sighs.

"You know you have to rinse these before you put them in the dishwasher, right?" he asks, holding a plate aloft. It's smeared with red goo, probably leftover cranberry sauce.

"Mmm," Natasha murmurs, not looking up from _Crime and Punishment_. Clint should know better than to talk to her while she's reading Dostoevsky.

"Nat." Clint is standing in front her now, arms crossed over his chest. "Did you hear me?"

Natasha marks her spot on the page with her index finger and looks up reluctantly. "What's the point of having a dishwasher if it doesn't wash the dishes?" It's an honest question.

Clint sits down on the coffee table. It had cost twelve dollars on Craiglist, and the legs wobble a little under his weight. Natasha calculates that it will last a maximum of six months.

"Nat, we don't live on the Upper West Side. We don't even live in the trendy part of Brooklyn. We live in a shitty apartment in a shitty neighborhood because you and I are people who like to stay hidden. So yes, you have to rinse the dishes."

Natasha sips her tea and says nothing until finally Clint rolls his eyes and stands up with an explosive sigh. "Okay, fine, _I'll_ rinse the dishes. Just find _one_ thing you're willing to clean, okay? Other than the knives?"

***

Natasha comes home from Lima and finds Clint sprawled on the couch, eating pepperonis and croutons for dinner.

" _Seriously_?" she asks. Her eyebrows are raised almost to her hairline.

Clint only shrugs, just like always. She has a feeling the trash is full of ramen packets and candy wrappers. He would die of malnutrition if SHIELD didn't pump him full of multivitamins.

"What is maltodextrose?" she asks, plucking the greasy package off the coffee table and studying the ingredient list. "And why is there yellow number six in these? Meat shouldn't be yellow."

"They're probably not meat," Clint says levelly, snatching the package back. "Are you saying I could eat these in peace if they were organic?"

"I'm saying I don't know how you're alive when all you eat is high fructose corn syrup and food dye."

Clint frowns. "That's not true," he says around a mouthful of pepperoni. "I also eat protein shakes and Chinese take-out. That's two whole food groups right there."

Natasha doesn't dignify that with a response. The refrigerator, predictably, is empty except for a six-pack and the sadly wilted contents of her vegetable drawer. She finds a safe-looking container of grape tomatoes and tosses it onto the coffee table next to the crouton box.

"At least eat these," she says. "They come in a plastic package, so you should like them."

***

Natasha peels off her socks and drops them in front of the couch. One of her boots is lying in a heap next to the door; the other she'd discarded halfway across the living room. The truth is, she _does_ know how to clean. She likes it even. Clint does the surface work, but she's the one who gets the mold out of the tricky corners of the shower and sweeps the dust bunnies out from under the bed.

She curls into her favorite corner of the couch, turning the worn pillow around till her head is resting on the fluffiest corner. Her eyes drift shut. In an hour, Clint will come home and she'll hear him zipping up her boots and standing them carefully on the mat next to the door. Then he'll come with the laundry basket and collect her socks, as he does every day. (He complains about it every Thursday, but he never actually makes her pick them up herself.)

The truth is, Clint would only pick up after someone he loves.

***

Nick Fury lives on Big Macs and chocolate shakes.

Maria Hill can -- and frequently does -- survive on Power Bars for seventy-two hours straight.

Phil Coulson has been known to put coffee into his cereal instead of milk. "You call it disgusting, I call it efficient," he says to no one in particular.

Clint knows all this because he's been watching what people eat since Natasha moved in with him. She's never given any sign that she notices these unhealthy dietary habits. She's certainly never offered any of their teammates a jar of Nutella or a package of humorously small tomatoes.

He leans back on the couch and turns on American Ninja Warrior, a package of beef jerky dangling from his hand. Beside him, Natasha gives a barely audible sigh, and then he hears her bare feet padding across the kitchen floor. She's gone for almost ten minutes this time, and Clint peers into the kitchen at the commercial break, careful not to let Natasha see. She comes back bearing a bowl of salad, which he takes from her outstretched hand without looking too closely. Still, he sees pomegranate seeds and orange wedges gleaming between the dark green leaves.

"Thanks," he says. "I love you too."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Junk Food and Dirty Socks (The Chex Party Mix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4236390) by [littledust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledust/pseuds/littledust)




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